HEBREW DIRGE.
"Mourn for the living, and not for the dead."
Hebrew Dirge.
I saw an infant, marble cold,
Borne from the pillowing breast,
And in the shroud's embracing fold
Laid down to dreamless rest;
And moved with bitterness I sighed,
Not for the babe that slept,
But for the mother at its side,
Whose soul in anguish wept.
They bare a coffin to its place,
I asked them who was there?
And they replied "a form of grace,
The fairest of the fair."
But for that blest one do ye moan,
Whose angel-wing is spread?
No, for the lover pale and lone,
His heart is with the dead.
I wandered to a new-made grave,
And there a matron lay,
The love of Him who died to save,
Had been her spirit's stay,
Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain;
Wail ye for her who died?
